


Royal Engagement

by melodiousmadrigals



Category: Wonder Woman (Movies - Jenkins)
Genre: Diana is well on her way to becoming a badass leader, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Gen, Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement! AU, Steve low-key has heart-eyes, arrow-shooting, policy discussions, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23902810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melodiousmadrigals/pseuds/melodiousmadrigals
Summary: Five years ago, at age seventeen, Diana's world was turned upside down when she found out that she was actually the Crown Princess of Olympia. Now, ready to ascend the throne, Diana discovers that an antiquated law prevents her from becoming Queen without a husband--and that there's another contender vying for the crown she might have to abdicate.
Relationships: Antiope & Diana (Wonder Woman), Diana & Mala (Wonder Woman), Diana & Sameer (Wonder Woman), Diana (Wonder Woman)/Steve Trevor
Comments: 18
Kudos: 56





	Royal Engagement

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello bonjour. this is the princess diaries 2: royal engagement wondertrev au that literally NO ONE asked for and I wrote anyways. (you'll notice there are scenes that aren't in the movie…that's just me adding fluff and/or context to try to add to the depth of their relationship.) enjoyyyyyy!
> 
> I think it's fairly obvious, but jic here's the character correlation:  
> Princess Diana - Mia Thermopolis  
> Steve Trevor - Nicolas Devereaux  
> Antiope - Joe  
> Etta Candy - Charlotte Kutaway  
> Queen Rhea - Queen Clarisse  
> Mala - Lilly Moscovitz
> 
> Note: there are a half dozen lines or so from the movie that I incorporated either directly or closely paraphrased, for amusement purposes only, because they were just too good to go without, no infringement intended.

Olympia is a beautiful nation, and maybe—though she’s a little biased—the prettiest place in the entire world. 

That doesn't mean Diana wanted to be the Crown Princess of it, initially, at seventeen. 

But she's going to be—she'll be crowned this summer on her 23rd birthday, when the provisionary clause that allowed her grandmother, Queen Rhea, to rule as Regent while she completes her education expires—and she's made peace with it. 

Since she was introduced to Olympia a little over five years ago, she's come to truly love the little country, and she arrived a day ahead of schedule, just so that she can enjoy the capital city of Olea for a few hours before her Royal Duties take over. 

She's sitting on a bench in the plaza, enjoying the sun, when a stranger's phone argument catches her attention. He's paused, waiting to cross the street, saying something heated to the person on the other end, and it wouldn't be all that notable, except that a vendor has lost hold of their cart, and it's rolling right toward him. 

Someone screams "look out!", but the man looks the wrong way, and without thinking, Diana moves, leaping up and pushing him out of the way, just as the roll-away cart careens past and smashes into a tree a few feet away. 

They both ended up on the ground, Diana hovering over him, and he blinks up in confusion, the call accidentally disconnected. 

"You're okay," Diana says, breathing a sigh of relief as she scans the man and finds no visible injury. 

"Do I—do I not look like I am?" says the man, breathless, like his instinct is to joke, but he's just a little too rattled to pull it off. 

"I'm glad you're okay." And she is. Now that the adrenaline is ebbing away, the severity of what might have happened to him is flooding in, like ice through her veins. She moves off of him, and offers a hand to pull him up.

"Thank you for saving me," he says, a small smile now on his face, and oh—he's very handsome. About her age with bright blue eyes, blondish hair, and a dazzling smile that shapes his whole face. 

"Any time." She doesn't mean for her voice to _still_ be breathless, but it might be. 

"I—I'd buy you a coffee to say thanks, but unfortunately I've got somewhere to be," he says ruefully, looking genuinely regretful. "Thus the hurry and the lack of attention and the almost dying." 

"Not necessary," says Diana. "Enjoy your day. Just—be careful, would you?" 

The man laughs, and it's an excellent sound, one she carries with her for the rest of the day. 

* * *

Her grandmother is pleasantly surprised to see her a day early, while Antiope is thoroughly annoyed that she was out and about with no guard detail. Etta abandons protocol and gives her a firm hug before guiding her through the castle, miraculously pulling out Diana's schedule for the week, as if she knew she'd be arriving today instead. 

"It's the same set of rooms as always, Princess," Etta says. "If you don't mind, I'll see you tomorrow morning at nine o'clock sharp for a dress fitting that we're squeezing in." 

Diana must make something of a face, because Etta chuckles. "Being queen isn't all negotiation and economy and diplomacy, unfortunately. Sometimes it's dressing up for balls." 

Diana groans. "Just promise me it will be something I can move in."

* * *

The first six, in fact, are _not_ dresses that Diana can move in. Everyone is getting frustrated when finally the designer pulls out a gown that is both Etta- (and therefore Rhea-) approved _and_ comfortable enough that Diana doesn't feel like she's being suffocated. (Power suits are fine, but ball gowns are not her cup of tea.) It's red and swishy, and Etta proclaims it "marvelous." 

"What is this for, again?" Diana asks through the screen as she pulls back on her regular clothes. 

"There's to be a ball in your honor, the day after next." She mumbles something else that Diana can't quite catch. 

"What was that, Etta?" 

"You'll be meeting a number of eligible high-ranking noblemen, as well as some foreign dignitaries."

"What."

"Well, the Queen thought it would be proper form."

"I'm not a piece of _meat_."

"Are you in a relationship, luv?" Etta asks. 

Diana remains silent, which is answer enough for Etta.

"The Queen is just concerned about Olympia having an heir, darling. The line of succession isn't very secure, at the moment." 

It's meant to be...comforting? Or at least conciliatory, but it raises Diana's hackles. She chafes at the rationale of "it's just how things are done". It's not—well, it frustrates Diana, because she _does_ want to be a mother (and have a partner), she just doesn't like being _expected_ to be a mother (and have a husband). It's the 21st century; women are people too, and all of their life paths are valid. 

After a few deep breathing exercises (future queens shouldn't be seen losing their temper, after all), Diana asks, "I don't _have_ to find a husband, right? This isn't an arranged marriage situation?" 

"No, just an opportunity to meet some suitable candidates, and if you happen to like one…" Etta trails off, thinking the better of whatever it is she was going to say.

"Fine."

* * *

"If you could just come back to the office for a moment, I need your signature on something."

It's later that evening, and Diana's been going non-stop all day. "Can it wait until tomorrow, Etta? I'm exhausted." 

"No, I'm afraid not." 

She traipses back to the west wing of the palace. Etta hands her a piece of paper that looks like nonsense, frankly, and Diana leans over to sign it, only to jump when she feels a tickle at her back. When she turns around she can't help the _shriek_ of excitement because it's Mala. 

Mala is Diana's best friend from childhood. They grew up on Themyscira together, running around and creating trouble, building forts and swimming and cliff jumping and all the other, more normal things that children get up to. 

She's also three years older than Diana, and it's been ages since they've seen each other in person, because their tertiary education tracks have had horribly misaligned scheduling. 

"MALA!" 

"DIANA!" 

They clutch at each other’s arms and bounce up and down in their delight to see each other. 

"You're here!" 

"I _am!_ " 

"You've got a new tattoo!"

"I do!" 

"I'm _so_ glad you're here!" 

"It's permanent!"

"What?" 

"I came here for you, dummy!" 

"What? Mala!" 

"Well it's not like we could live in the same city like we always talked about otherwise!"

Mala goes on to inform her that she's finished with her doctorate now, and that she's got a job at an Olympian nonprofit that specializes in environmental law and activism. Diana can’t quite verbalize how thrilled she is, because even with Facetime and Skype, it’s not the same as having her friend _there_. 

"So basically, if you ever need someone to yell at you about climate policy, I'm your girl,” Mala finishes. 

"Mala, you've spent the last decade yelling at me about climate policy."

Mala's grin is sharp. "Yeah, but you're about to be queen, now. Expect the yelling to double now that you can make national decisions." 

Diana snorts. That tracks; long before she ever went to school for it, Mala had been involved in environmental activism, and has never been shy about yelling at politicians. "You know, I would love to have you as an advisor in the Ministry of the Environment and Sustainable Development." 

"Seriously?" 

"I'm slated to get three appointments." She just didn’t think she’d get the opportunity to ask Mala. 

Mala grins. "I'll have a new set of sustainable development and clean energy goals on your desk no later than next week. Also some general policy platform by which to achieve them that can be parsed out for press releases and the like." She's got that gleam in her eye that says she's gotten what she wants and is now unstoppable.

Diana just smiles wearily. "Excellent, I think Olympia is missing out on plenty of opportunities for solar power, in particular. I look forward to reading it." 

"Okay, enough policy talk! You're still my best friend! Tell me _everything_ I've missed." 

They make their way back to Diana's rooms and spend the rest of the night giggling and catching up. 

* * *

On top of Mala's arrival, there's plenty of other State business that keeps Diana busy and her mind off of the ball for the next two days. She's having briefings with each of the country's Ministers before her coronation, and she has a meeting with the Minister of Foreign Affairs (and several ambassadors) the day of the ball. She spends hours pouring over foreign policy, aid deals, and recent comuniqués so that she's prepped and ready. 

Additionally, despite being heir to the throne, she has a dreadful amount of paperwork to fill out in order to solidify her status not just as a citizen (that was taken care of years ago) but as a now-permanent resident of the palace. 

Not for the first time, Diana wishes that she'd had time to go to law school, instead of just dual masters degrees in PPE and International Relations. It would probably be helpful in understanding the minutiae of Parliament's legislations—but also the forms in front of her. 

She still has six memos that she needs to read before her _next_ meeting tomorrow, and she's had one of her ladies' maids (those are still a _thing_ here) convert to something of an assistant: Diana's directed Brigitte to sort through every piece of mail that's sent to her, and pick five to ten of the most-representative letters from the day, so that she has an idea of what the people are thinking and going through. 

Her office already has a form letter that's sent in reply to everyone, but she's promised herself that she'll answer those letters personally as long as she's able. 

The point is that in the next fifteen minutes, another binder of reading material will be brought to her, and she'll have yet more to do. 

Which is a problem, since she imagines Etta will be knocking on the door with a stylist any minute. 

Well, she's a more than capable princess. She can multitask. The stylist arrives and finds her already in her chair, robe on, face clean, hair down, and nose in her reading material. 

She looks up briefly when he says, "Right. Hair first, I think." 

"Thanks, Napi," she replies, relieved. He's by far her favorite stylist to work with, soft spoken and elegant in how he transforms the canvas of her body. "Do you mind…?" She indicates down to her binder. "I'm afraid I'll be no good for conversation today."

He shakes his head. "You worry about your work and I'll worry about mine." 

"Thanks," she says, grateful. 

She whiles away the next two hours with the EU trade policy briefing, making notes as she goes and almost forgetting that there's someone plucking at her hair and prodding at her face.

She finishes just around the time he needs to line her eyes, and they spend a few minutes chatting. 

"You're all done," he says eventually. 

Diana glances at herself in the mirror. 

"You're a miracle worker, as always." 

"Enjoy the ball." 

"I'll certainly try."

* * *

The ball, as balls go, is tolerable. Diana's got plenty of people to meet, but she's _always_ got plenty of people to meet. It's part of being Crown Princess. She's not particularly fond of this version of dancing (it's far more precise and uptight than the rollicking, energetic jigs she's used to on her home island), but it's far from the worst way to spend an evening. 

When she sees Sameer, Diana breathes a sigh of relief. He's a friend of hers from university, and having someone that she knows (and likes) there is a huge morale booster, even if she's busy meeting other nobles and princes. (He's a distant cousin of the Moroccan king, which means little for him politically, but socially means that his family is very rich and respected; she's vaguely surprised he's on the guest list, but suspects Etta may have slipped him on for a friendly face.) She finishes her dance with a Croatian dignitary, and makes her way over to see him. 

" _Assalamu alaikum_ ," she says, tapping him on the shoulder. 

He turns and lights up in a smile. " _Wa alaikum assalam_ , Diana, how are you?" he asks in Arabic. 

She speaks just enough to ridicule the ball, and then switches to English before any eavesdroppers get suspicious as to what they're talking about. 

She and Sameer catch up over a dance, and she finds out that he's here for several months developing business interests for his family. 

" _Insha'allah_ I will see you soon," she says, as the dance ends and it becomes apparent she has to be introduced to yet another bachelor and/or dignitary. "I'll get someone to try to coordinate our schedules." 

" _Bislama,_ " says Sameer, and then she's swept off again. 

It's three dances later that she sees him. He's better dressed and better groomed, but it's unmistakably the man she pushed to safety. He goes out onto one of the balconies midway through the dance.

She maneuvers her partner, the twelve year old Swedish prince, so that she's close to where he was standing when the dance is over, and then slips after him. 

"It _is_ you," she says when she finally sees his face. 

"Guilty." He flashes a charming smile. "We meet again." 

"Diana," she says, extending a hand to shake. At his look, she clarifies, "Princess of Olympia." 

"I'd figured that one out for myself, thanks," he says with a laugh. "Steve Trevor, nice to officially meet you." 

"Did you know it was me? The other day," she clarifies. 

"Not until after the fact," says Steve. "Your image isn't exactly circulating daily, yet." 

Diana nods. They've been good about keeping the paparazzi out of her face, and she's only just begun this year's round of State appearances. "How do you find yourself here?" 

Steve waves a hand dismissively. "Old family title. We get the polite nod with invitations." 

"And you give us a polite nod when you accept the invitation, I suppose."

"Ah, so you're aware of the vicious etiquette circle," he says, with mirth in his eyes. 

"Only too well." 

"If I ask you to dance, will we be forever stuck in the cycle on the dance floor?" 

"Fortunately for you, there's a societal failsafe wherein I'm meant to be dancing with everyone, not just you." 

"Am I meant to be pleased that I can't while the night away with you?"

She blushes, and tells herself that charming people are only charming to achieve their own ends, but he's looking at her searchingly and—

"You should be; your toes would be absolutely ruined otherwise." 

"Well, then I'm saved. Care to dance, Princess?" 

He's the most attractive man she's seen all night, and he's _interesting,_ so of course she says yes. 

It's the best five minutes she has all night. 

* * *

The rose colored tint on the world that comes from meeting a cute boy is shattered the next morning when, in exploring the castle's passages, she overhears some twit cite an ancient rule that all women ascending to the throne have to be married, and that Parliament is going to make that rule apply to her. 

"Are you insane? It's barbaric!" she rants later. "We can fight this, Grandma, can't we? I mean, what are they going to do? You had to come all the way toThemyscira to find me and make me heir—" 

"Sir Patrick, in addition to announcing the law, has also announced that his nephew, Lord Devereaux, is an alternative heir to the throne through some very roundabout way," says Etta, wringing her hands. 

"What?" exclaims Diana. 

"Obviously the boy doesn't have a _better_ claim than you, since it's about six generations back through another funny clause, but he _would_ be a legitimate alternative if you decide not to marry." 

"If I decide not to marry—if I _decide_ not to marry! My birthday is in six weeks! What do they expect me to do, enter into an arranged marriage?" 

At the carefully expressionless looks around her, it all becomes very clear. "Oh my gods, they expect me to enter into an arranged marriage. That's such _bullshit!_ " 

"Language!" says the Queen, but there's no heat behind it. 

Then something occurs to Diana. "But Grandma, you're not married! That's got to be precedent." 

Queen Rhea shakes her head. "Not technically, no. I rule by special provision, as Regent, until you can be crowned. It doesn't apply." 

"I hope I never meet this Lord Devereaux person," says Diana viciously. 

"You'd best prepare to be a bit more civil than that," the Queen admonishes, "because I've invited them to stay." 

"You _what?_ "

"Best keep your enemies close, Diana," says the Queen, and unfortunately, she can't argue with that. 

* * *

"Presenting: Lord Devereaux and Sir Patrick." 

Diana suddenly feels like she can't breathe. It was bad knowing that someone was trying to steal the throne, that she'd be forced into a glorified arranged marriage in order to keep it. But it's even worse to see _him_ , the cute boy that she was maybe flirting with, being presented as this Lord Devereaux person. 

"You," she mouths, unconsciously, and her eyes narrow. 

He looks guilty for a split second before his face smooths over in a polite mask.

She approaches him, takes his hand in greeting—and then she trods as hard as she possibly can on his toes. 

He lets out a poorly disguised grunt of pain. 

"Oops," she says, face the picture of innocence. “How clumsy of me.” 

He glares. 

Frankly, he should count himself lucky she didn't try to crush the _arch_ of his foot. Or knee him in the groin. 

* * *

"That little liar! That no good _snake!_ " Diana rants as soon as she's behind closed doors and can unpaste her public smile. "We met at the ball and he told me his name was Steve Trevor."

"It is," says Etta, calm as can be. "He might have omitted a few key details, but he wasn't lying about that. The Devereaux land parcel in the South is one of the oldest in Olympia. The young man's name is Steve Trevor, but he inherited the title Earl of Devereaux through his mother's side, so he's officially Lord Devereaux." 

"And Sir Patrick?" 

"Technically a bastard, somewhere on his father's side; no legitimate claim to anything, really, except that he got himself appointed to Parliament, and is trying to get Lord Devereaux on the throne." 

"My life is being ruined by two privileged, mediocre men," Diana says to the ceiling. 

"Said every woman in existence," Etta whispers under her breath so Diana will hear but the Queen won't. 

It's a testament to how angry Diana is that she doesn't even smile. 

Queen Rhea pauses. "You do not _have_ to go through with an arranged marriage, Diana. Just because I did doesn't mean I'll fault you if you decide not to do so also." 

"I'm not letting him win," Diana snaps, and that’s that. She’ll need to decide on a fiancé soon. 

* * *

Mala shows up ready to make Diana's day better. 

"I've brought popcorn and sweets to this viewing of _Most Eligible Bachelor_ , sponsored by the patriarchy and a dumbass Parliament, and made possible by viewers like you." 

"You're a lifesaver." 

"Oh, I try. Etta, let's roll this bitch!" 

Etta queues up the slideshow of potential husbands for Diana, and a forty-something bloke with a dukedom and a smirk pops up. 

"Hard pass," says Mala, swiping her hand like it's a life-sized dating app, and Diana can't say that she disagrees. 

Next is some Scottish Lord, Charlie of Somewhere-In-The-Highlands. 

"Nope," says Mala, popping the p. "Not a chance." 

"He sings and plays piano," Diana argues, pointing to his hobbies. "That could be nice. And he works with mental health advocacy groups." 

" _No,_ " repeats Mala, "too scruffy," and they move on. 

A photo of Arthur Curry pops up on the screen, looking ruggedly handsome as always. 

"Ooh, pick that one, Diana! Never mind being royalty, your children would be globally famous for their beauty."

Diana's met Arthur, and he's got a sense of humor that she appreciates. "He's in line for his own throne," she laughs. She also happens to be friends with his very serious girlfriend, Mera.

"He's not actually an option," Etta sighs. "I just put his picture in there because it's so nice to look at." 

"Bummer." 

As they cycle through, there's a few Olympian gentry, a Greek prince, a Brit Diana went to school with that she vetoes before the picture has even come into focus, and a few scattered continental European options, none of which are appealing. 

It's when they flash by an Emirati prince and get into a discussion about whether his English is better than theirs (Diana is confident it is; Mala remains unconvinced) and whether Diana's Arabic is good enough (this time Mala is confident it is and Diana remains unconvinced) that Diana gets an idea. 

"Sameer is connected to the Moroccan royal family," she says, the idea taking root in her head the more she thinks about it. 

"No," says Etta.

"He would _qualify_ , though, wouldn't he?" 

She fixes Etta with her patented stare, and poor Etta cracks under it. "Probably." Which is Etta-speak for _almost certainly._

Diana pulls out her mobile phone, opens up her WhatsApp thread with Sameer, and switches from her Greek to her Arabic keyboard. 

_Hi, Habibi_

_Can you come to the palace at your earliest convenience? I’ll make sure you’re on the pre-approved list._

**_Habibti!_ **He replies, lightning fast. (They started calling each other the endearments their junior year, during a particularly rough all-nighter before a moot court competition, and it stuck.) 

**_A formal summons, wow! What did I do to deserve this honor?_ **

_Need to discuss something with you._

**_Can be there tomorrow. What time?_ **

_I've got a fifteen minute window at 10h00._

**_I'll be there, insha'allah._**

_Shukran bezzef_

**_I get to see my friend, no thanks necessary._ **

"I'll negotiate with Sameer tomorrow." 

Etta sighs, resigned to Diana's stubbornness. "I'll let Her Majesty know."

"Okay, but we still get to swipe through the rest of these poncy gents, though, right?" Mala says, practically bouncing in her seat. 

Diana is battling the onset of a tension headache, but hasn't had a chance to hang out properly with her best friend in ages. She forces a smile onto her face. 

"Next, please, Etta." 

Mala's whooping carries down the corridor, and turns the head of more than one staff member. 

* * *

"Are you kidding me?" Sameer's eyebrows are so high up his forehead that they're all but disappeared into his hairline. He’d (thankfully) arrived on time, and Diana has wasted no time in cluing him into her situation. 

"I'm really not." 

“You want to marry me.” 

“That’s the idea.” 

They argue in French for a while, and then English. Diana can see him coming around; after all, a number of his family members are in arranged marriages, and it sounds like there's been talk of one for him, too. 

“You really can’t get out of it?” Diana shakes her head, and Sameer sighs. "My father will be thrilled. My mother will cry." 

"But you'll do it?" 

"Yes." He scuffs a hand through his hair. " _Wallah,_ this is such a bad idea." 

"We can make it work," she says, voice small. 

“You can do anything you put your mind to, Diana.” There’s an encouraging smile playing on his lips. He’s a good friend. 

She just hopes they’re both right. 

* * *

The next day, Diana’s official schedule says that she’s got the afternoon blocked off. What this really means is that she goes to the community center in Olea, which runs a summer program for disadvantaged youth. Most of the kids are low income, some are orphans, and a number are part of Olympia’s refugee resettlement program. There are summer-camp-like activities, educational opportunities, and supplementary language classes, and it's always an ordered sort of chaos that Diana finds calming, because it reminds her of summers in Themyscira. 

Diana started working with the center three summers ago, when she ran a self-defense program for some of the older kids and a music class with the toddlers (she _loves_ babies, okay?), and has been trying to get Etta to put a weekly session back on her schedule—at the very least as an English assistant, even if she can't run a full class—despite the fact that it's packed. 

When she arrives, there's shouts of "Miss Diana!" from the older children who remember her, and she's soon crowded by eight-to-ten year olds clamoring for attention. 

None of the kids really _know_ who she is, from a political standpoint, and that's the way she prefers it. To them, she's just _Miss Diana,_ and being vaguely normal for an afternoon, in the midst of Princess Duties and Wedding Planning, is a godsend. 

There are no self-defense classes on the schedule this year, so she makes cookies with one cohort, plays a game of football with another, and then does a sing-along with the pre-schoolers. Their enthusiasm is infectious, and she finds herself relaxed and laughing for the first time in ages. 

On the way out, she chats with Paula, the director of the center, who has become something of a friend. 

“I know you’ve got more pressing things to worry about, Your Highness, but the education budgets are abysmal,” she says, after they’ve exchanged pleasantries and talked about several of the returning children and what they’ve been up to. 

“I cannot actually promise anything,” Diana says, “but I will put a note in my agenda for my upcoming meeting. Send a letter to my office, detailing the problem, and get as many people experiencing the same thing to write as well. It’s something tangible with which I can work.” 

These children, she thinks, on her way back to the palace, are the reason she’s still fighting to become Queen, despite all the nonsense and the stress of an arranged marriage. She can do some good for them, and so many others. She can enact policy that _helps_ the people, allows them to thrive instead of survive. She can sacrifice something for herself if it helps so many more people. 

Now she just has to keep remembering that every time things get to be too much. 

* * *

Diana finds herself hiding from one of her ladies' maids, Bridget. Ever since the Palace made the announcement that she would be marrying Sameer the day prior, this has become a fairly frequent occurrence, because Bridget keeps trying to catalogue her wedding preferences. She's not trying to make the poor woman's job harder on _purpose_ , she just needs a little more time to process everything before she gets taffeta samples thrust in her face. 

"Princess Diana," greets a voice, and Diana rolls her eyes before turning her attention to Lord Devereaux. 

"Steve Trevor," she says, because she can technically get away with it, and disregarding his title when he can't disregard hers is the closest thing to a _fuck you_ that she has at the moment. It's how he introduced himself to her, and for him to insist on a more formal title, he'd have to double back on even more of what he said in their first, more casual meetings. She's betting he's not willing to try that with her right now. 

"I see you've gotten yourself a fiancé very quickly." He's fishing, obviously. 

"Well, when you know, you know," Diana snaps. "Sami and I just pushed the timetable up a little bit because of your theatrics." 

She moves to leave, but Steve follows her up the stairs. 

"Tell me about this fiancé of yours. Is he the tall, dark, and handsome type?" 

"Yes, actually." In reality, Sameer is a couple centimeters shorter than she is, but it just means that none of her aides will ever make her wear heels at formal events, and frankly she's pleased about that. 

"And does your handsome fiancé know you were flirting with me just a week ago at the ball?" 

Diana forces a laugh, wills her face to remain neutral. "Someone thinks very highly of himself if he thinks a bit of light banter was flirting." 

"And yet I didn't see you engaging in this oh-so-typical courtier light banter with, say, the Swedish prince."

"That's because Edvard is _twelve_ and just wants to talk about volcanoes. I shouldn't have to teach you how to build repartee with people of varied interests and persuasions." 

"So you're saying you felt _nothing._ "

"I'm saying that women have to fake things all the time in— _politics._ But I suppose it was a passable enough diversion. I can't help if it was more enjoyable for you than for me." 

There's a gleam in his eye, she knows he's about to make her regret that last statement, when Bridget finds her. 

"Excellent, I'm so glad I've found you again, I just need some floral preferences. We must know your thoughts on gardenias." 

Diana allows herself to be towed away, one annoyance traded out for another. 

* * *

_"You need to get close to her."_

_"Uncle—"_

_"It'll give us a better idea of how to disrupt the process and get you on the throne. She got a fiancé rather quickly—it reeks of arranged marriage and that can't possibly satisfy her."_

_"I don't know about that, and I don't like this. She seems fine."_

_"You were destined to_ rule. _"_

 _"I don't remember mum or dad saying_ anything _about that."_

_"You were too young."_

_Was he, though? Maybe at twelve, he wouldn't remember his father's wishes, but by eighteen, it seems odd his mother never mentioned it._

* * *

Steve, she discovers, seems to have the uncanny ability to show up exactly where she happens to be, in whatever moments of her time aren't rigidly scheduled, and almost exclusively when he isn't wanted. She finds, however, that sometimes there are benefits to having someone to snipe at. It's _arguing,_ not _flirting_ , and it's not even always about her wedding (although he teases her mercilessly about gardenias, which are flowers she’s _not_ very fond of, thank you)—instead, sometimes it's the right approach to climate measures or foreign relations or funding the arts. It's just good practice for dealing with stubborn ministers, really.

* * *

In the midst of everything, it's an absolute relief to have time blocked off to train with Antiope. 

Self-defense is practical—she'll always have a modicum of control over her own safety—but more than anything, it's excellent stress relief. 

Mala, who used to join their sessions on Themyscira, long before Diana knew she was a princess, is dreadfully out of practice, and Diana takes her down easily, before it's Antiope's turn. 

There's a _reason_ Antiope was allowed to become Diana's Head of Security, even though she's from Themyscira and not Olympia. It's because she's _excellent._

Antiope comes at her in a calculated whirl of limbs—the only thing off limits is her face—and they fight for three, four, five minutes, trading blows and blocks, until Antiope catches her in an awkward grip, digging her fingers into Diana's arm, before finally securing her into a tighter hold. 

"Do you yield, Princess?" 

Diana settles her weight and maneuvers her hips, throwing Antiope off balance and breaking her control. She sweeps her legs out from under her, and pins her, a devilish smile on her face. 

"No, I don't." She applies just a little bit of pressure, and forces Antiope to tap, as Mala whoops her support from the sidelines. 

"Nicely done, Diana. Watch your telegraphing, though. You got better as we went along, but I saw your first four hits from a kilometre away." 

They do a little bit more endurance training, and then Antiope referees another sparring session between Mala and Diana before the hour is out and she has to go back to Princess Duties. 

* * *

Diana finds her way to the kitchens at half one in the morning, exhausted but looking for a little bit of something sweet before she falls into bed. 

She'd been on a conference call with a representative from the Republic of Vanuatu until midnight, because of an accidental miscalculation in time difference. The countries have little in common except for marvelously cordial relations, but Rhea thought it would be a good test-run for foreign diplomacy.

The call had gone well, but there'd been another mix-up in the briefing file: she'd been told that the representative would prefer to speak English, but he'd signed on in French and hadn't wavered once. She's fluent, of course, but the last-minute switch that late at night has given her a headache, which has only been compounded by the day's briefing binder she was meant to finish reading afterwards. 

She just needs some chocolate, and then her pillow. She does _not_ need the intrusion of another person into the dark kitchens but that's what she gets. In the form of none other than Steve. 

"Sorry, but can we just _not_ tonight?" Diana says, breaking the silence between them that has formed at the shock of seeing another human so late in the quiet night. 

"Huh?" He sounds genuinely confused. 

"Can we not do the arguing thing? I know you hate me, but I'm just—too tired." 

He looks younger, in the dim light of the kitchen, standing in pajama pants and a t-shirt, and his face is a little more open. "I'm just here for ice cream." 

She perks up at that; it sounds even better than a square of chocolate. 

"What kind?" 

"Oh, er. Vanilla."

" _Vanilla?"_

"Don't judge." 

"I'm not judging," she says. "I just expected you to prefer...I don't know. Something over the top."

Steve smiles at that. (He has a nice smile, but she's not going to think about that, because it's just that it's late, and her perception is always a little skewed when it's late.) "I do, but this is from one of the best ice cream parlors in Olympia, and whenever I go to somewhere that's really, really good, I get vanilla."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"It's—" he pauses, collecting his words. "It's easier to make crazy flavors seem good, you know? The fudge ripples and the caramel and the pecans, they're all obscuring factors. But if an ice cream shop is really good, their vanilla should be really good. Flavor, sweetness, texture; it should all be spot on." 

"So you order vanilla to test them."

His brow furrows, like she's misrepresenting his words and he doesn't know what to do about it. "I order vanilla because I only like vanilla when it's excellent." 

"And this is excellent," Diana says dubiously. 

"Yes." His face scrunches, and then he's off his stool, pulling a bowl off the shelf. "Here, you have to try it." 

"Oh, you don't have to give me your personal—" He's already scooping and handing the bowl over to her. 

Steve watches her intently as she takes a bite, and she can't help the soft little moan of pleasure that escapes her. He's _right_ , damn him. 

"It's wonderful," she sighs. "The proprietors should be very proud." 

"See? Vanilla. I'm glad you like it." His smile, instead of smug as she'd expected, is softer, and a little lopsided. She thinks it might be genuine. 

She likes him better like this, in the dark. At a détente. 

Diana finishes her ice cream, and then meticulously scrubs her bowl and spoon, and—in a fit of insanity, maybe—reaches her hand out for Steve's. 

"The Princess of Olympia does dishes?"

"The Princess of Olympia cleans up after herself and tries not to exploit her staff." 

There's something funny in his look, something she can't quite place. 

"Nah, I've got this," says Steve finally. "But thanks. You should get some sleep."

She wants to argue that it's one dish, and won't make a bit of difference in her already messed up sleep schedule, but they agreed to no arguing. 

"Well then. Goodnight." 

"Sweet dreams."

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me, Grandma." For a second Diana hopes that she’s still asleep, and that this is just a nightmare. 

"I assure you, I am not." 

"Side-saddle? You expect me to ride _side-saddle_?" 

"It's tradition," scolds Queen Rhea, which Diana personally thinks is a cop-out thing people say in that tone when they should be saying _we have no real logic for doing it this way except for the fact that it's always been done this way and we're entrenched in ideology._

"I'm a passably good equestrian," Diana argues, because she spent quite a lot of time riding in her childhood on Themyscira, "but I never learned side-saddle, and you can't possibly expect me to in the next half an hour." 

"Ah, no. You see, this is where Hephestus comes in."

"Hephestus?" 

Queen Rhea unwraps the fabric parcel in front of them to produce a wooden leg. 

"Hephestus has aided several generations of queens and princesses in convincing the population at large that we are delicate ladies who ride side-saddle. Fortunately the riding gowns are _voluminous_ , and obscure the other leg." 

"That's...actually kind of badass, Grandma." 

Queen Rhea looks a bit proud. "Yes, we ladies are known to have a bit of moxy." 

Diana snorts. "All right. Fake side-saddle it is." 

* * *

One moment, everything is fine. She's comfortable enough on a horse that once she's sure her real leg is covered, she's unconcerned by the ride through the Royal Military Academy's gardens. She's got one hand loosely on the reins, and is waving to the crowd with the other. The next moment, something lands in front of her horse, and he startles, whinnying and rearing, once, twice, three times, and Diana only just manages to stay in her saddle before the horse has taken off at a gallop.

It's a tense few seconds before she manages to get him under control, despite the gasps and cries of the crowd, but she does, and then all of a sudden a security detail is by her side, urging her to get off the horse immediately. 

She dismounts to more gasps, and it suddenly becomes apparent to all what some had noticed while the horse was rearing: the wooden leg. 

She swallows her pride, and waves off Antiope's concern, climbing to the podium to give her speech, but it's all for naught: despite the substantive policy she talks about, the first question is about the wooden leg. 

"It was more comfortable—and ultimately safer—to be riding astride, rather than side-saddle, and it is frankly archaic to expect otherwise. I ask that further questions be addressed to policy, which I would be happy to elaborate upon." 

The next question is also about the wooden leg, and before she can answer, an aide steps in to say that there will be no further questions. 

* * *

"I had it under control," Diana snaps, once clear of the cameras. 

"You called side-saddle _archaic,_ " replies Queen Rhea.

"No, I called the _expectation_ that a woman ride side-saddle archaic!" 

"The press will call it the same thing, Diana. Do get your temper under control. I shall see you tomorrow at eight o'clock sharp." 

With that, the Queen glides away, unreceptive to further commentary.

* * *

Seething, Diana storms in the opposite direction back to the stables, and screams in frustration. 

"Princess?" 

It may very well be the last person that she wants to see.

"Come to gloat?" 

"Well, I—" 

"What the hell am I saying, of course you have. Any opportunity to make yourself look better when I look the fool. _Look how wonderful I am compared to the blundering Crown Princess, who natters on about boring policy and calls our stupid traditions archaic._ " It's a bad facsimile of Steve's tone and cadence, but she doesn't care. 

Maybe it's fine that he's there. She wouldn't want to be around anyone that she actually _likes_ right now; she's too angry. 

"Actually, I wanted to see if you were okay." 

Diana snorts. " _'Okay,'_ " she says derisively. "I just stayed on a bucking horse and _then_ gave a speech, and the only thing people are going to remember from today is that I had a fake leg instead of riding side-saddle!" 

She shucks off the riding jacket and throws it in frustration. And then, like a switch, the fight leaves her, and she slumps onto a haybale, head in her hands.

"I am never going to be enough for the kingdom." 

She feels it so acutely that she can't even be bothered to care that she's vulnerable in front of someone she shouldn't be. Olympia will always want more, and she doesn't have enough left to give. They will find fault with everything, and appreciate nothing. 

Steve kneels down in front of her. "Hey, the tabloid writers are harpies, but in two days some other scandal will have drawn them off." 

She lets out a humorless laugh, and it looks like he's about to say more when his eyes narrow and focus in on something that seems to be over her shoulder. 

"Di— _Princess,_ " he breathes, and his hands come up to touch her exposed bicep, her forearm ever so delicately. "Are you okay?" She's mildly confused; he just asked that—then, with razor sharp, poorly disguised anger, "Did your fiancé do this to you?" 

"What?" She looks down in surprise, and sees the colorful bloom of two day old bruises in the shape of fingerprints scattered across her bicep, and more dark bruises along her forearms. She'd forgotten they were there. 

Her eyes flick up to his, and there's a shadow over this face, the twist of his mouth furious and dark, but his eyes—they knock her breathless. They're softer, almost tender, as he searches her face for answers. 

"No, of course not! Sameer would _never_ —" A laugh gurgles up her throat, escaping even as she tries to tamp it down, even though none of this is funny. It's just the ridiculousness of the situation, of _Lord Devereaux_ , her rival, _caring._ "I _spar_ ," she says. 

"What?" 

"As exercise," she clarifies. "I spar with Antiope, and we had a rather intense session the day before yesterday. She caught me." Diana points to the fingerprint bruises. 

"So it was a consensual fight lost, not a domestic one." The humor is starting to return to Steve's face as her explanation sinks in. 

"I never said she won," Diana quips, a small glimmer of her own humor returning. 

"No?" 

Her eyes narrow at that. 

"Would you like to test how long it takes me to get you flat on your back?" 

"For that, all you have to do is ask, Princess." 

The look she shoots him is _deadly_. 

"My toes have already faced your wrath and the rest of me is just fine as is," he rushes to amend. 

"You're lucky I restrained myself to just your toes." 

"You know, I believe that more with each passing second." 

"Good." 

"Great." 

"Excellent." 

A pointed cough startles them apart. Antiope stands across the stable, eyes narrowed. 

"Princess, you're due in the Lavender Room for a briefing," she says. 

"Right," Diana sighs, and moves around Steve to leave. 

There's a beat where Antiope freezes Steve in his place with a searching glare. 

"You'd best watch yourself around the princess," she says. "I hope you won't disappoint me."

He's clearly about to reply when a posh voice says, "Ah, Steven, there you are. I'd wondered where you'd gone off to." 

Sir Patrick steps fully into the room, leaning lightly on his cane. 

"Uncle," mutters Steve. 

"We'd best get along," Sir Patrick says. "Places to go, people to see."

Antiope narrows her eyes. 

"A word," she says, pinning Sir Patrick with a stare as Steve makes to leave. He pauses, but Sir Patrick waves him off. 

"I want you to know that I take each and every threat—physical or emotional—to the crown very seriously," Antiope hisses once they're alone. 

"I haven't the foggiest idea of what you're talking about." 

"I think you do, and you'd best watch yourself before continuing down the same path in the future." 

"My dear lady, is that a threat? You'll find, Mademoiselle, that the word fear is not in my vocabulary," says Sir Patrick. 

"Perhaps not," says Antiope without missing a beat. "But it is in your eyes." 

She sweeps out of the stable without another word. 

* * *

She's reading a dense, four hundred page report and eating an apple when another person sits down on the bench next to her. 

It's Steve—of course it is, he seems to be everywhere these days—and it reminds her how simultaneously furious and grateful she is that he was exactly right when he said another scandal would pop up and take the wooden leg's place. (In this case, the Countess of Aeolia's extramarital affair.)

"That was only published at midnight," he says, conversationally, as though they're friendly acquaintances. He almost sounds impressed that she's two hundred and sixty-three pages in. 

She jots her thought down in the margins and looks up. 

"Yes, I was up half the night reading it." 

"Don't you have people to provide you horribly detailed summaries of it?" 

She takes another bite of her apple and regards him thoughtfully. "Yes, I've asked six aides to provide me summaries." 

" _Six?_ Doesn't that defeat the purpose?" 

"No, not at all. Their submissions will help me distill and retain what I'm reading. It's also their unofficial interview for doing this on a more permanent basis."

He cottons on quickly. "Oh, that's clever." 

She gives him a half-smile in response, pleased that he's figured it out. "I thought so. Whoever has the truest and most accurate summaries gets the job." 

"Fair system, and good quality control," he says with a chuckle. "Do you always intend to double check their work, Princess?" 

"Time constraints make that rather impossible," she says primly. "I'll do it when possible, but I do know how to delegate where needed." 

When he grins at her, a little lopsided, she feels as though she passed an exam that she didn't realize she was taking. 

Her phone beeps, and she sighs. "I'm afraid my fifteen minutes out in the garden are up." 

"So little?"

"We can't all be genteel lords with nothing better to do than muck about palace affairs and wander gardens," she quips, but there's no heat to it today, no fight. She's too tired to try, and besides, Steve was actually quite pleasant today. She even enjoyed talking to him. 

Rather than take offense at her comment, he smiles playfully. "Don't forget staring at ourselves in the mirror. It's a time-honored hobby of us genteel lords." 

"No," she snorts. "How could I possibly forget?"

* * *

Diana already saw Steve frequently, but in the following weeks, he starts turning up every single day in strange spots during the moments that she's not otherwise engaged. 

More often than not, they end up arguing about something—mostly policy. Sometimes, it almost feels like Diana is back in class arguing with another student, given how knowledgeable and well-read he is on a number of subjects. It's almost—fun. 

Case in point: today, they’re bickering about national security expenditures. 

“We live in a modern state, with a minimal risk of traditional war,” she argues, already several minutes into this particular conversation, “and we’re small enough that we’d need to depend on allies anyways. There’s absolutely no reason to expand the military operations budget.” 

“No,” says Steve. “I’m just saying that intelligence budgets _should_ be expanded. Information is power, and it can help us assess the moves that we have to make, in regards to both foreign and domestic policy.” 

“I’m not saying that our intelligence agencies should be _disbanded,_ ” she mutters. “You’re missing my point. What I _was_ saying, if you’d care to listen, is that we should be focusing our funds on expanding our diplomacy programs. Our language and culture courses, our foreign service programs. Peace and diplomacy should be our way forward.” 

They carry on, spiraling into deeper detail, until Bridget finds Diana and shepherds her to the next appointment on her schedule. 

She finds herself reviewing policy in what little spare time she has, just to make sure he never gets too much of an upper hand. 

* * *

The garden party is pleasant enough—she's out in the sun, at least, even if her flats are pinching her toes—when Steve meanders over to her conversation, a date trailing in his wake. 

Diana was raised among a lot of truly badass women, and she doesn't subscribe to the hating-on-other-women philosophy, but there's something about this one—Amanda—that sets her on edge. She can't identify a reason, and that annoys her almost as much as the woman in question. 

She tries to be polite, she really does, but she must be having a bad day, because she's short with everyone. Sameer throws her a look, and guides Amanda off for a chat, like the perfectly charming gentleman he is. 

Diana turns on heel and leaves Steve behind without so much as a word, and then—assured that Sameer is still chatting and entertained, slips off into the hedge maze to try to get a grip. She's probably just tired; she's only been getting five or six hours of sleep, on average. 

"Hey," says a voice, and she groans, because _of course_ it has to be _him_ following her _._

"Can you just, for once, back off? Go find your perfect little date." 

"She seemed just fine with your fiancé, actually. They've hit it off nicely." 

Diana scoffs. (It's unfortunate, but he happens to be right.) 

"Jealous of Amanda and Sameer, then?" He's baiting her, but she can't keep her mouth shut. 

"Oh, _devastated,_ " she deadpans. 

"Come to think of it, you haven't been particularly demonstrative. Trouble in paradise?" 

"We're perfectly fine."

"A ringing endorsement for any pair of lovers." 

"It doesn't really concern you," she snaps. 

"Perfectly _fine,_ " repeats Steve, apparently fixated. "But where's the _passion_? I haven't heard you say anything about _love._ " 

" _Oh,_ " she says, suddenly full of understanding and vague disappointment. "You're just following me around, trying to throw doubt onto my relationship with this passion and love business, hoping you can split us up and take the crown. Well, I'm sorry to inform you that you've got the wrong angle entirely." 

"Wrong angle? So you're not in love with Sameer, then?" He asks it like it's a "gotcha" moment, like it's some great revelation. 

"Of course I'm not in love with Sameer," Diana hisses, rather than double down on the lie. "He's a friend from uni who believes in my vision for Olympia and was willing to go along with an arranged marriage, since you and your uncle have made it impossible for me to have a real one!" 

It makes Steve pause as all the information sinks in. "You'd go through with an arranged marriage?"

"To save Olympia? Yes. My country comes first. My _people_ come first." 

"That's a little melodramatic." 

How _dare_ he call her melodramatic for wanting to do right by her country. It spills out before she can control herself, and she's not even sure if she means it: "I loathe you." 

"Well, I loathe you," he volleys right back. It's an automatic thing, but, infuriatingly, she can hear that there's no heat behind his words. It just makes her angrier. 

"I loathed you first!" 

It's the charged nature of the moment, Diana thinks, that has them suddenly kissing. She's still seething, and will _not_ concentrate on the electricity zinging through her, or the fact that they're extremely compatible, chemistry wise, or the fact that—

Her foot pops. 

It pulls her back to clarity. No matter how good the kiss is, this cannot be happening. His uncle wants the crown and she's technically engaged. She pulls away, hears his little yelp of surprise as his lips chase hers, and then she's trying to back away, but he's following, hands gripping her arms just hard enough to anchor her back to him, but not so hard that it hurts, that she couldn't get away, and there's something in his eyes that looks like he's pleading—

And, neglectful of their surroundings, they topple into the fountain with truly epic splash. 

"Well _now_ you've done it," snaps Diana when they resurface, and she ignores Steve's incredulous "me?!" as she struggles out of the pool in her now sopping tea dress. 

"I do _not_ want to talk about it," Diana grouses to Sameer under her breath, when she makes her way back through the hedge maze. "Just help me get out of here." 

True to form as the doting fiancé, he does. 

* * *

"What was that about?" Sameer asks, once they're clear of everyone else. It's obvious that he's trying not to laugh. 

"I—we—it—fellintoafountain," Diana mumbles. 

"Yes, I can see that." 

"Just because I'm drenched does _not_ mean I don't have the means to set you on your ass," she snarks. 

"Well, color me both frightened and aroused," he retorts. 

"Oh, have your fun." 

"You and Steven seem to find yourselves in close contact quite a lot for people who claim to dislike each other." 

"You had better not be implying what I think you are." 

"Did I imply something?" Sameer asks lightly. "I don't think I did, but if _you_ think I did...maybe you should examine why your mind went where it went." 

"You are not helping," she grouses. 

"On the contrary, I got you out of there _and_ just provided emotional counseling for free. And I can do it again in your choice of five languages."

"My savior," she snipes in Greek, just to be petty, because it's not one of his five. 

"Oh, is that how it is?" Sameer bites back in Tamazight, because he knows it's the only one that _she_ won't understand. 

They glare at each other, and then Diana sighs.

"He just wants the throne," she says. "But he's good at pretending like he cares, sometimes, about something other than the throne." 

Sameer bites his tongue to stop a comment about Steve's behavior. Anyone with eyes can see that Steve isn't just pretending to care. (Up until Diana had arrived, Steve had been perfectly pleasant, relatively humble, and had given no indication he was still on board with Sir Patrick's grab for the throne, but he'd— _lit up_ when Diana arrived.) He may put on a good show of polished courtier, but he's an amateur compared to the people Sameer deals with on a regular basis. However, Sameer knows Diana won't be receptive to his observations today, and lets the matter drop. 

* * *

The next evening sees Diana's yawning wildly, but the peacefulness of the empty library is enough to keep her going. She's ensconced in what she's come to think of as her chair, cozy in sweatpants and a knit sweater, and entirely—mostly—focused on the papers before her, reading glasses perched on her nose. 

A floorboard creaks. 

"What are you doing up this late?" It's Steve, of all people.

"Homework." Her ire has largely dissipated and she waves her daily binder of letters in demonstration, then sets it back down so she can pull out a new piece of stationary. It's already midnight, but she's only got three more to go. 

"Homework?" The confusion in his voice is evident. He's no stranger to reading boring policy memos, but usually they don't prompt longhand responses. 

"Letters," says Diana absently, trying to figure out the best response to a local grassroots organization director writing about the inhibitive nature of rising rent costs. It's been a prevalent theme in one way or another in both the letters and one of the briefings with the Minister of Housing and Development. "Did you know that housing costs have increased thirty percent in the last decade, while wages have largely remained unchanged?" 

"Uh," says Steve, surprised. "I think maybe I've heard that figure, yeah." 

"It's unacceptable and unsustainable." She's so focused on how to give the woman a solid answer without promising things beyond her current level of control that she misses the way Steve's watching her. 

He picks up one of her finished letters, and the annotated original letter it corresponds to. 

"Wait, do you do this regularly?" he asks. 

"Every evening." She thinks she's finally got the wording right. Actionable, not empty, without promising more than she can guarantee. He's looking at her softly, with awe. She misses it entirely. 

"And you always answer."

"As best I can," she says, finally looking up. "I mean, some of it is just congratulatory stuff. Brigitte usually sticks at least one of those in there, if my office got at least ten of them, just to brighten the binder. But most of it addresses real problems that real people are having. A lot of them can't get to the Petitioner's Hall in person, especially since it’s only held once per month. It's important that they feel heard anyways." 

"You write them," Steve repeats. 

"My office writes them. I write ten of them." 

"What were they about tonight?" 

"It was a slow day, apparently," Diana admits. "Brigitte included two letters wishing me well. But there's one from a scared mum whose child has leukemia—thank gods we've got a good healthcare system; I can't imagine what I would do if we had a system like the United States'—and one about housing costs, and a couple about the late frost that caused early crop damage. Everyday concerns. What are you doing here, anyways?" 

"Just—looking at some bylaws," Steve says, and she can't tell if he's serious or not. When he's not being antagonistic it's—confusing. 

"Well. I think I'm going to turn in for the evening. Goodnight." It's abrupt, but she needs to get away. 

"Goodnight, Princess." His voice is entirely too soft. 

* * *

_"I'm done. I can't do it. I_ won't _."_

_"Come now, Steven."_

_"That's final, Uncle."_

_"You're in love with her."_

_It's like a sucker punch, but it's also not wrong. "It doesn't matter. She'll never love me."_

_"Steven—"_

_"I'm_ done _."_

* * *

The Independence Day parade comes less than a week before her wedding and coronation, and it’s both anxiety-inducing and a breath of fresh air. It means her deadline is approaching, and though things are technically coming together well for the wedding, she’s still experiencing personal reservations. 

She and Sameer get along well, but they’re not in love, and being in love was always something that was important to her. Still, they’ve had plenty of conversations about how it will work, and they’ve agreed that his role will be largely ceremonial. The law only states she needs a husband, not a King, so his title will be Prince Consort. He’ll make his permanent residence in Olympia, but will be free to carry on with his business dealings almost as normal, and will be expected back for celebrations and major State events.

It’s—not ideal. Diana never needed anyone to help her rule, but she thinks she would’ve liked a real partnership. Someone to bring problems home to at night, someone to bounce ideas off of, and help her problem-solve. She supposes that she’s got staff for that, policy experts that she likes and trusts, but it still would have been nice. Maybe, if she’s lucky, in a handful of years they can get a quiet divorce. 

The point is that the Independence Day celebrations force her out of her head, because there are public events to attend, including a parade. 

The route, as it happens, takes them right past the community center. 

She's doing the formal princess wave, a fake smile pasted onto her face, when she hears, "Miss Diana! Miss Diana!" and sees the kids out, watching the parade pass. The fake smile falls off her face, replaced by a real one. 

Without stopping to think whether it's a good idea or not, she hops out of the carriage, halting the procession, and goes over to give the kids hugs. 

"Do you think they'd like to walk in the parade?" she asks Paula in Greek, because most of the children don't speak it, and she doesn't want to get anyone's hopes up before permission is given. 

"I think they probably would," Paula replies, smiling, and there's a cheer when Diana suggests it. She gets a vendor to pass out a bunch of crowns and a mess of children follow Diana back into the street, waving and smiling as Diana starts the parade up again, now on foot. 

They're so exuberant about the whole thing that Diana feels revitalized, and genuinely enjoys the rest of the parade. She skips with the kids, enjoying the running commentary they provide about the vendors and the music and the crowds. At the end of the parade, she gets them together like it’s an activity at the center, and they all lead the crowd in a rousing chorus of Olympia's anthem. 

This is why she’s doing this. Her personal life doesn’t matter, so long as she can help people. 

* * *

"You're good with kids," says Steve, that evening, when he finds her in the library again.

Diana shrugs. "I _like_ kids, but they already knew me, so it's not like I have the magic touch or something." 

“Yeah, but just because they recognize you’re a princess doesn’t mean they’ll automatically listen to you.” 

His brain is so quick to make connections, but sometimes they’re not the right ones. “No, I mean that I actually know those kids. I’ve run classes at that community center, and try to join them whenever my schedule allows.”

Not for the first time, she misses the way he looks at her, too focused on her binder. 

(To be fair, he misses the way her eyes linger on his lips for just a second too long when he starts talking again.) 

But she catches herself, and interrupts him to make some hasty excuses, retreating back to the safety of her room. She knows he’s attractive, has always known it, but it’s been—distracting, of late. She needs to get a hold of herself. She’s got a _wedding_ and he’s her _rival_. 

* * *

"Fancy seeing you here." Diana looks up to see none other than Steve— _Lord Devereaux,_ she corrects herself, crossly, trying to provide herself a little mental distance—sauntering down the lawn, watching her as she lines up to take a shot at the target. 

"I bet you're in shock," says Diana dryly. "Who could ever expect to find me here, at the range, when I'm meant to shoot an arrow through a ceremonial hoop in a few days, in front of hundreds of people." 

Her companion raises an eyebrow. "Nervous?" She can't quite decipher his tone, and it's unnerving. It's a skill she's often wished that she had, and the desire grows every day at Court. 

"I haven't shot an arrow in five years," she says by way of response, deliberately vague in the hopes of ending this conversation. 

Steve picks up a bow, examines it. "It's about confidence, Princess, and a little bit of form." He draws an arrow, and shoots. It hits the second innermost ring of the target, and he shoots her an easy, rakish grin. 

"Is that all," she deadpans. 

Something in his face softens a little, and he steps behind her, gently places a hand on her arm, guiding it up into position. 

She indulges whatever this is, because it perplexes her. It seems he's trying to _help_ , and she can't imagine why. He should, by all accounts, want her to fail, and instead… this. It's another example in a growing pile of confounding actions that contradict what Sir Patrick has postulated about Steve. 

"Pull back carefully, shoulder like so, finger anchored to your mouth." His voice is directly in her ear, and the warmth against her back is sending tingles up her spine and causing her neck to erupt in gooseflesh, as he gently realigns her body. "Aim, and let go." 

Diana adjusts slightly to where she actually needs to be, and on the exhale, lets the arrow fly. Her aim is true, and it hits the target dead center. Advancing out of his space, she draws three more arrows and sends each into the bullseye of the remaining targets scattered across the law. 

She turns to find him slack-jawed.

"I said it had been years since I shot, not that I didn't know how," she says, primly. 

"Clearly. You're a very impressive shot, Princess." 

She can't help but twitch a smile. "Thank you. For the record, I _am_ a bit nervous, but it's the crowd, not the shooting." 

"If _that_ was the first time you shot in five years, you'll be just fine for the ceremony, crowd or not." Then, "I spent an hour this morning practicing, just to make sure I'd hit the target." 

"Admitting this was a set-up, Lord Devereaux?" 

He scrunches up his face, she thinks maybe at the too-formal use of his title. "No, not at all. I couldn't possibly know you'd be practicing here and now. It's not on your Official Royal Schedule." 

"Then this morning you were—?"

"Hoping I might get lucky, I suppose." His voice is softer and so is the smile that he gives her this time, more genuine.

She really doesn't know what to say to that. She wants to ask if he just wanted to see her. She wants to ask _why_. But the words get caught in her throat. 

"Look, Diana—" 

Her eyes flash to his, and he grimaces, cuts himself off. It's the first time he's used her given name without any title attached, and she finally understands those Austenian books, because she never _knew_ her name could sound so intimate. 

"I know what it looks like," says Steve. 

"Oh?" she replies, trying to keep her tone cool, like there's not all sorts of confusing thoughts and emotions flitting around her head. "What does it look like?" 

"When my uncle made the challenge—that is, I didn't agree to it because you were a woman, or unmarried," he says. "I know it looks like that, and it's fair to assume that, from the outside"—she had wondered, honestly, thought it was probably the case at first, but then the things he did never backed that up—"But it was because you didn't grow up here."

It—well, it's certainly a more reasonable justification, in her mind, but she's spent the past _five years_ learning everything she possibly can about Olympia, on top of her university program and private lessons. 

She draws on some of the ire from a month ago to reply, "And you think a privileged Lord—a young, rich, white man—has real insight into what Olympians need?" 

Steve pauses. "That's fair. But I also grew up in an Olympian context, and you didn't. So I did think that, before I knew you, yeah." 

The distinction isn't lost on her, and it feels like her heart is in her throat when she asks, "And now?"

"I think it's time for me to bow out gracefully, don't you? That's why I'm leaving."

Diana doesn't like him, not one bit, has created a whole personality facet around it, and yet she finds, inexplicably, her stomach dropping. 

Of _course_ she likes him. She likes him too much, even. He's intelligent and witty and not actually that good at pretending like he doesn't care. He goes toe to toe with her on social programs and the economy and he cares about the people of Olympia too. 

It's like a weight lifted and a gut punch all at once. She recognizes the beneficiality of an uncontested coronation, but she doesn't _want_ him to go. 

She wants him to stay here, and keep arguing with her, and keep making her a better leader-in-training by challenging her. 

"Leaving?" she gets out, and it's a small thing that her voice is even, but she also wasn't sure it would be until it happened. 

"Early tomorrow morning. I'm not going to stand in your way, Princess." 

"I—thank you." She's unsure what to say, what to do. It's not a feeling she likes all that much. 

"Princess Diana!" From across the lawn, Etta marches towards them to ferry her off to her next engagement. For a moment she forgot that she was on a schedule, that this was the only break in her day. She’s a little sick of the schedule, of almosts and half-finished conversations and interruptions at every turn—wants one whole conversation to herself with Steve. But that’s not how life works for a princess. 

"Would you—can I see you one more time, tonight, before I leave?" he asks, a little urgently. But time has run out: Etta has arrived, and is brandishing a folio of something for Diana's review. 

"I don't think that's such a good idea," she says. "But—" Before she can say another word, Etta is off on something of a diatribe, and herding her back across the lawn.

When she glances back, he's still standing there, in front of the targets, looking forlorn. 

Unfortunately, she has no further time to consider it as she's ushered directly into a meeting with the Minister of Education, and needs to turn her full attention to policy, because she’s got lots of notes and questions for him. 

* * *

When she finally gets back to her room, Mala is already there in her pajamas. 

"We are bingeing something trashy and not talking about anything Olympia related." 

"Yes, _please_ ," groans Diana. 

They snuggle up on the bed, Mala's laptop in between them. 

"I'll be right back; I need popcorn." Mala always needs popcorn. This is nothing new. Diana watches impatiently, waiting for Mala to return. But Mala never makes it back to the bed, instead pausing by the window. 

"Hey, Diana? Lord Dipshit is outside throwing pebbles at your window like this is a goddamn fairytale come to life." 

"What?" Diana rushes to the window, and sure enough, there's Steve. She sticks her head out the window, only to get an invitation to climb down.

Mala looks out the window again, makes a face, and then looks at Diana. "Go! I'll cover for you."

"Are you sure?"

"You want to go, don't you?" 

Diana bites her lip, hesitant, but eventually nods. 

"Okay, then go on! Shoo!" 

With one last quick glance at Mala, she hauls herself over the balcony edge and scales the trellis the two floors down to where Steve is standing. 

They escape on horseback down to the lake in the palace's extensive park, and dismount. Steve has brought a couple of picnic blankets and they sprawl out under an ancient willow tree, where they exchange stories and go on about nothing in particular, a conversation that is finally unbroken, uninterrupted, with the freedom to carry on about whatever they please. 

"Tell me a secret," says Steve after a while. 

"I dislike coriander." 

"So does anyone with the OR26A gene. Something else." 

"My mother refuses to come to my wedding or coronation." She doesn't mean to say it, but it slips out, angry and frustrated. 

"Wait, really?" 

Diana nods. "She doesn't approve of any of it. She never wanted me to leave Themyscira. But this is a part of me too—who would I be if I had stayed?" 

Steve makes a little humming noise. "You're doing something." 

"Hmm?" 

"My father. When I was little, he used to tell me that when you see a problem, you can either do something, or you can do nothing. You saw a problem you could fix, you came to fix it, and now you're going to be queen. You’re _doing_ something." 

"It doesn't feel real, most days.” 

"You'll make an excellent queen," Steve assures her. 

“I’ll try,” says Diana. “Sometimes I still don’t feel up to the task.” 

“You are. You’re—extraordinary.” 

Diana blushes, thankful for the obscuring darkness. “Some days I still feel like that scared seventeen year old on Themyscira. Other days, I don’t even recognize her.” 

She remembers the free feeling of horseback riding and cliff-diving and wearing the same sundress three days in a row without anyone noticing. For all she wishes, sometimes, that her mother didn’t keep her in the dark about who her father was, she’s grateful that she got carefree years, even if they seem like a distant, cloudy memory. 

“Do you ever wish you were normal?" Steve’s question jolts her out of her reverie. 

"Normal," laughs Diana. "What even is that, now? What do people do when they're normal?" 

"I dunno, really," Steve says. "Read the newspaper, have breakfast, go to work. Get married, have a kid…" 

"I have to do all those things already," she says, unable to look him in the eye. 

"Without the color-coded binders and the rush and the eyes of the Court and the general population and the leaders of the world, then."

"It'd be nice." 

"Yeah." 

"Do those things for me, would you? The slow versions. Find out what it's like." Her heart is breaking, just a little, at the thought of it, a few small shards that she has to tuck away and hope will become less jagged with time. 

"I can't promise that," he says, sounding wrecked. She thinks he might say more, but then he visibly swallows, and the words disappear down his throat. 

“Dance with me?” he asks, eventually, and her first thought is to decline, that this isn’t _really_ dancing and there’s no music, anyways, but she’s not sure when she’ll ever get the chance again. 

So she accepts, and they sway softly, dancing under the willow by the lake, as time bends around them. 

"Can I kiss you? Just once. Just to remember." 

"Okay." 

It's bittersweet and perfect, and when Diana blinks, a pair of tears track their way down her cheek. 

Eventually, they curl up on a picnic blanket at the trunk of the willow and talk until their eyelids become leaden. In the twilight state that comes just before deep sleep, Diana thinks she hears him whisper something into her hair, but she's pulled under by Morpheus's kiss before she can respond. 

By the time she wakes up, it may as well have been a dream. 

_("I wish we had more time. I love you.")_

* * *

Diana stirs awake, a little stiff and extremely confused, but head pillowed on something warm and—moving. 

_Steve._

They fell _asleep._

Shit. 

"Shit." 

"Huh?" Beneath her, Steve shifts, only half-conscious. 

"Steve, it's _morning_. We fell asleep!" Diana hisses, and tries to extricate herself from his arms, but he sleepily pulls her back against his chest. 

"Steve!" She pokes him and he rouses more thoroughly this time, letting go of her and stretching. 

It's then that she sees the boat and the telephoto lens. 

It all clicks into place. Gods, she feels like such an idiot. 

"You called a paparazzo." 

"What? Diana, no!" 

"Oh, my gods. You _lied_ to me! You looked me in the eye and _lied_ to me! I can't believe I trusted you, when it was just a sick little _game_ to you."

"Diana, that's not it at all! It wasn't me—I didn't—" 

"You are _just_ like Sir Patrick and all the rest; I never should have trusted you!"

She's on her horse and galloping away before she has to listen to another word. 

* * *

There’s hell to pay at the palace, apologies to make for the footage and pictures and her lack of judgement, a cross grandmother to calm, and a swirl of things that has to be done before the next morning. She makes it through the day by just going through the motions; she feels empty. 

How could she fuck up _this badly?_

Mala tries to give her a pep-talk and Sameer tries to give her a hug, but nothing snaps her out of it. 

She still feels vaguely numb the next morning, trying to make herself believe that she's getting married today, and barely glances up when Antiope enters her room.

"Diana, I have news that I think you need to hear.” Antiope is a serious individual, but the quality in her voice makes Diana look up, actually focus on her. “The Queen didn’t want me to tell you this, but I think you deserve to know. It was Sir Patrick behind the whole thing with the paparazzo," Antiope tells her. Diana feels her heart drop into her stomach, as her aunt continues, "Steve had nothing to do with it. I have confirmation. His motives...well, I don't know if they were pure, but the Olympian crown wasn't among them." 

And after all the horrible things she said to him. 

She freezes. Because if he's been telling her the truth about everything…

She has some things she needs to fix. 

* * *

As soon as she's able to slip away, she finds Sameer in his room, hair coiffed but not yet in his suit. 

" _Sabah al-khair,_ " she says, kissing his cheek. 

" _Sabah an-nur,_ " he replies. "Isn't it bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?" 

It's a joke, obviously, but Sameer knows Diana well enough that just a glance at her serious face has him sobering. 

"There isn't going to be a wedding, is there." It's more statement than question, and Diana is grateful that he knows her this well. 

"I can't, Sameer." 

He pulls her into a hug. "It's okay, _Habibti_ , it'll be okay." 

Diana takes a shuddering breath. "I love you, Sameer, but I'm not in love with you, and I can't marry you. I can't let you marry me. Not like this." 

Sameer exhales. "Is it awful that I'm relieved?" 

Diana chokes a laugh, and then Sameer follows, and before long, they're laying side by side on the bed, laughing so hard they can barely breathe. 

"We can play this however you want," Diana offers. "However would be best for you, personally and publicly. We can set it up so that you leave me, or I leave you, at any point during the day."

"I was just kind of hoping you'd march in there and tell Parliament to fuck off," says Sameer. "And by that, I obviously mean that you should tell them to change the law."

Diana laughs again, a weight lifted off her chest. 

"I was kind of hoping you'd be right there with me when I did," Diana says. 

"Good," says Sameer. "Because I want to be there. We can tell them it was a mutual decision, and that it's in Olympia's best interest to change the law." 

Diana nods. "I can't keep quiet about this any longer." 

"Are you willing to lose the crown? I can't imagine they'll like an ultimatum."

"If this is something they won't listen to, then I'm not the right queen for Olympia at this moment in its history. By the same token, I won't compromise my principles, and if I do compromise them like this, then I don’t deserve to be a queen. An appeal is the only way forward." 

"Can you deal with that Devereaux fellow becoming king if they call your bluff?" 

"He left." 

"He _did?_ But wh—oh," says Sameer in understanding. 

"What, ' _oh'_?" 

"Well. It all makes sense. He fell in love with you, and realized you were a good choice for queen, didn't he?" 

"I—the second part is true. The first part is the other way around." 

"Diana."

She winces, anguish apparent on her face. "I thought—and then I said _terrible_ things—but I don't _think_ he'd contest the crown, anymore." 

"One step at a time. We get through today and deal with the rest." 

"I hate it when you act all wise." 

"That's what makes it so much fun." 

* * *

Diana bides her time. She puts on her wedding dress, and does up her hair. She goes to the hall. She glides up the aisle, a vision in white lace. Squeezes Sameer's hand once for support. And then promptly cuts off the Justice that's meant to be marrying them. A collective gasp echoes through the hall. 

"Now that I have your undivided attention," she says, turning around to face the entirety of Parliament, among others. (She's ever so glad that someone decided to mic the space so that the guests could all catch her vows. It makes it so much easier to deliver the speech.) "Ladies and gentlemen and Members of Parliament. I stand before you today in resolute opposition to my own marriage on its very principle. That I, as a woman, should have to take a husband in order to be your leader, when a man does not have to take a wife. That our own laws codify me as _less than,_ simply because I am unmarried. 

"What lesson does that teach our children? What inequity—what innate message of inferiority—does that convey to Olympia's daughters, the little girls who might otherwise grow up to be leaders and innovators? We are a nation of endurance, of tolerance, of progress, and it pains me that in this law we are not upholding those values, but instead falling victim to sexism and double-standards. 

"I stand before you today, asking you to reconsider the law that states that a woman cannot rule alone. I have spent every moment of the last five years preparing to become your Queen, and I assure you that I do not need a husband to be that leader. 

"Before you decide this matter, I want each and every one of you to think about your legacy—your personal legacy, your daughters and nieces and granddaughters—and the legacy of our beautiful nation as we navigate modern global politics." 

There's a lingering hush for a few moments as Diana's finishes, a spell over the crowd. And then pandemonium ensues. The crowd erupts in whispers, and a loud voice cuts through the din. 

"In that case," declares Sir Patrick, standing and brandishing his cane, "I am re-petitioning Parliament to contest the claim of Princess Diana and acknowledge my nephew, Lord Devereaux, to be—" 

"Stop!" There's scuffling and Diana whips around to see Steve, in the door of the hall, breathing hard. She's not alone, the rows of people have become dead silent once more at his entrance. 

"I would like to formally address the members of Parliament. Each and every one of you should be advised to disregard my uncle. I decline. I refuse to be king, and I formally sever our ties." 

There's a fresh series of gasps, and Sir Patrick begins to say something, cheeks ruddy in a fit of outrage. 

"I'm not done," says Steve, voice brooking no argument, and astonishingly, the crowd shuts up again. "Instead, it is Princess Diana who should have the crown. She’s bright, and kind, and caring. But more importantly, she has a vision that will bring our country forward into the 21st century. And if the parliament were astute, they would name her Queen, with or without a consort. Besides, just think how lovely she’ll look on our postage stamp." 

A moment later, all eyes are on Diana, as if they're assessing whether she really _would_ be becoming on the postage stamp, but her eyes are on Steve, trying to convey how _sorry_ she is through a look. 

"Well," prompts the head of Parliament, gesturing in Diana's direction, "have you anything else to add?"

She tears her eyes away from Steve and turns back to where the members of Parliament are seated. "I've already given you my argument," says Diana, head held high. "It's preposterous that I should have a husband when a King wouldn't need a wife. I am unwavering in my dedication to Olympia, and ask that you judge that, rather than my gender." 

"Shall we take a vote? All in favor of abolishing the law and allowing Olympia's heir to become Queen _without_ a husband?" 

There's a chorus of _ayes_ , and Diana can scarcely believe it, because it's resounding, it's clearly a majority, it's—

"Those opposed?"

There are only two voices, and that's it, that's more than a super-majority, that's—

"So it shall be stricken. Princess Diana, I'm pleased to announce to you that you may be coronated forthwith _without_ the presence of a husband."

There's a cheer from the crowd, giddy with the drama of the past half an hour, and Diana feels the thrum of relief coursing through her body. From across the hall, she meets Steve's eyes and grins, and he smiles, and she mouths _thank you,_ and before he can respond, Sameer is hugging her tight in glee, and then she's hugging her grandmother, who's appeared beside her, and Antiope, and Antiope’s wife Menalippe, and Mala, and Etta— 

—in between hugs, in the madness, she looks around, but can't find Steve. 

There's an announcement that she _won't_ be getting married, but that the coronation will proceed as scheduled the next day, and then she's free. 

She doesn't have to marry. She's positive it will take days—weeks, maybe—for it to sink in, despite the fact that there are sure to be revelries with Mala and Sameer and even her grandmother that evening. 

* * *

Diana is glad she requested fifteen minutes be budgeted for her to be alone. She needs a moment to breathe and not be observed before that crown gets placed on top of her head officially. 

The antechamber is cool and dark, and she allows herself to reflect on the past few months. 

There's a light tap on the door, and Diana steels herself, can't quite believe that the fifteen minutes are up. But it's not Etta, coming to collect her. 

It's Steve. 

She feels the breath leave her body. By the time everything had settled down the day before, Steve was gone, and she didn’t have a good way to contact him.

"You came back," she whispers. "I wasn't entirely sure if you would." 

"Well," says Steve, and the earnestness on his face tugs at her heart. "I'm trying to be brave, but I'm in something of a quandary." 

"Oh? Can I help?" 

A soft smile flits across his face. "Maybe. See, I'm desperately in love with the Queen-to-be, and I'm wondering if she might love me back."

For a second time today, he steals her breath. She forgets the anxiety of the morning, the fact that she's about to be crowned queen of a real live nation state.

"She does." 

A smile—the real one, that's just a little too wide and a little lopsided, the one, she's finding, is often reserved for her—splits his face. 

"Diana," he says, and she still gets a little thrill at his use of her first name. 

"Steve." 

"You know, I was thinking. Just because you aren't _required_ to have a consort doesn't mean you couldn't, theoretically, have one eventually." 

"I _am_ still accepting applications," she says, as seriously as she can manage through the smile that's threatening to break across her face. 

"Well, then," he replies softly, "I'll just have to work on bolstering my résumé so that I can submit mine in a few years." 

"I'll look forward to reading it." The dam shatters, and the smile floods across her face. She isn't sure who leans in first, but the kiss takes her breath away. Her foot pops, and for just a second, everything seems like it's fallen into place. Magical. Miracles do happen, once in a while. 

Maybe it'll get complicated later, but for now, everything is just as it should be. 

* * *

"Presenting: Her Majesty Diana Helene Themyscirous Amazoni Parnethius, _Queen_ of Olympia." 

* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to everyone who has made it to the end of my longest single fic to date! Dropping a comment or kudos would make my day. Come cry with me on Tumblr (@melodious-madrigals). Finally, stay safe during COVID, everyone xx


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